given different circumstances, but Beauty’s life was at stake. How did her boyfriend get away with seven murders without arrest? I asked as much.
“Lack of evidence, I guess.” He let out a long wheeze. “All the murders looked like accidents.”
“Accidents?”
“Yeah,” Georgie said, his voice raspy like the soles of a glass-slippered princess. “The cops might’ve never caught on, but he likes to leave a small memento of his crimes.”
“What kind of memento?”
“A single long-stem rose.”
My mind flashed to the article in yesterday’s newspaper, the one about the Cin City assassin with a flower fetish. The assassin called Spindle. A shiver ran up my spine.
“No one knows why he leaves a rose,” Georgie said. “But in every case the cops found one somewhere at the scene.”
I had a pretty good idea why, and she was brunette, beautiful, and covered in ink. The roses were some sort of sick “I love you” note left by a crazed assassin. One I’d hired to kill my future wife. Shit.
Georgie wasn’t finished. “The guy is good. He ran one victim over with a pumpkin.”
“A pumpkin?”
“A really big pumpkin.” Georgie gave a wet laugh and then quickly sobered.
A man’s voice crackled through the phone, sounding highly annoyed. “Stop right there, Georgie.”
“She was asking for it!” Georgie screamed. “I swear.”
The sound of fist meeting flesh followed and then the phone clicked once and went dead.
“Georgie?” I ventured.
Nothing but static greeted me. I hung up my p-Phone and stared at the desert landscape painted on the wall. Why a hotel in the middle of the sandpit went with a desert motif was beyond me. It was like a princess buying a glass slipper factory.
Speaking of princesses . . . I needed to stop Lollie’s boy toy from murdering my lazy bride and soon. But how? A well-placed bribe? And if that didn’t work, I could buy a gun and force Lollie to take me to her boyfriend, Clint Easterbunny style.
A good way to get shot, but what other options did I have? I needed to find this Spindle guy and fast.
I wondered if Ms. Bliss, like her boyfriend, packed heat. Probably not. It was hard to hide panty lines in black leather pants. Imagine trying to disguise a pistol.
Unfortunately, a few hours later I learned that, like princesses, weapons came in many varieties.
Chapter 12
F ollowing my phone call with Georgie, I did what any man facing the possible murder of his future wife would do. I squeezed a fair amount of hand sanitizer on my hands and then plopped down on my bed and fell fast asleep.
In my defense, Beauty was probably fast asleep too.
Or not.
The ringing of my p-Phone woke me ten minutes later. “What?” I grumbled at whoever was rude enough to disrupt my slumber.
“Jean-Michel?” Beauty’s sleepy voice echoed through the phone. “Did I wake you?”
I stifled a yawn. “Not at all. Is something wrong, my lady?”
Beauty inhaled deeply. “I . . . ah . . . about tonight,” she began. “I wanted to say . . .”
“Say what, my lady?” I prompted when the silence lengthened. My mind raced with possible scenarios, most of which left me with olive-colored legs. Damn it, I didn’t want to turn back into a frog. Not now. Not when a French restaurant recently opened up on my block.
“Thank you,” she whispered as if the words tasted unpleasant.
“No problem.”
“No, I mean it,” she added, as if the words tasted unpleasant in her mouth. “Thank you.”
Damn, I’d only bought her dinner. What sort of appreciation would I get for a full six-course meal? Oddly, I found myself very much wanting to find out. “You are quite welcome, my lady. I’d be happy to buy you dinner again tomorrow evening.”
She let out a snort. “I wasn’t thanking you for dinner, idiot.”
“Oh,” I said with a frown. “What exactly did you thank me for, then?” I pictured our kiss. It wasn’t the best. Maybe a six on the hotness scale. Maybe the poor dear
“Lack of evidence, I guess.” He let out a long wheeze. “All the murders looked like accidents.”
“Accidents?”
“Yeah,” Georgie said, his voice raspy like the soles of a glass-slippered princess. “The cops might’ve never caught on, but he likes to leave a small memento of his crimes.”
“What kind of memento?”
“A single long-stem rose.”
My mind flashed to the article in yesterday’s newspaper, the one about the Cin City assassin with a flower fetish. The assassin called Spindle. A shiver ran up my spine.
“No one knows why he leaves a rose,” Georgie said. “But in every case the cops found one somewhere at the scene.”
I had a pretty good idea why, and she was brunette, beautiful, and covered in ink. The roses were some sort of sick “I love you” note left by a crazed assassin. One I’d hired to kill my future wife. Shit.
Georgie wasn’t finished. “The guy is good. He ran one victim over with a pumpkin.”
“A pumpkin?”
“A really big pumpkin.” Georgie gave a wet laugh and then quickly sobered.
A man’s voice crackled through the phone, sounding highly annoyed. “Stop right there, Georgie.”
“She was asking for it!” Georgie screamed. “I swear.”
The sound of fist meeting flesh followed and then the phone clicked once and went dead.
“Georgie?” I ventured.
Nothing but static greeted me. I hung up my p-Phone and stared at the desert landscape painted on the wall. Why a hotel in the middle of the sandpit went with a desert motif was beyond me. It was like a princess buying a glass slipper factory.
Speaking of princesses . . . I needed to stop Lollie’s boy toy from murdering my lazy bride and soon. But how? A well-placed bribe? And if that didn’t work, I could buy a gun and force Lollie to take me to her boyfriend, Clint Easterbunny style.
A good way to get shot, but what other options did I have? I needed to find this Spindle guy and fast.
I wondered if Ms. Bliss, like her boyfriend, packed heat. Probably not. It was hard to hide panty lines in black leather pants. Imagine trying to disguise a pistol.
Unfortunately, a few hours later I learned that, like princesses, weapons came in many varieties.
Chapter 12
F ollowing my phone call with Georgie, I did what any man facing the possible murder of his future wife would do. I squeezed a fair amount of hand sanitizer on my hands and then plopped down on my bed and fell fast asleep.
In my defense, Beauty was probably fast asleep too.
Or not.
The ringing of my p-Phone woke me ten minutes later. “What?” I grumbled at whoever was rude enough to disrupt my slumber.
“Jean-Michel?” Beauty’s sleepy voice echoed through the phone. “Did I wake you?”
I stifled a yawn. “Not at all. Is something wrong, my lady?”
Beauty inhaled deeply. “I . . . ah . . . about tonight,” she began. “I wanted to say . . .”
“Say what, my lady?” I prompted when the silence lengthened. My mind raced with possible scenarios, most of which left me with olive-colored legs. Damn it, I didn’t want to turn back into a frog. Not now. Not when a French restaurant recently opened up on my block.
“Thank you,” she whispered as if the words tasted unpleasant.
“No problem.”
“No, I mean it,” she added, as if the words tasted unpleasant in her mouth. “Thank you.”
Damn, I’d only bought her dinner. What sort of appreciation would I get for a full six-course meal? Oddly, I found myself very much wanting to find out. “You are quite welcome, my lady. I’d be happy to buy you dinner again tomorrow evening.”
She let out a snort. “I wasn’t thanking you for dinner, idiot.”
“Oh,” I said with a frown. “What exactly did you thank me for, then?” I pictured our kiss. It wasn’t the best. Maybe a six on the hotness scale. Maybe the poor dear
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